


Isolation

by Tom_Tomorrow



Series: Alone. Isolation. Home. [2]
Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Maggie Sawyer, F/F, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Kara Danvers, Protective Alex Danvers, Sensory Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:29:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tom_Tomorrow/pseuds/Tom_Tomorrow
Summary: Davidson pauses behind her and for a moment they wait. Silence reigns.No one else joins them, but the cursory glance paints a grisly story.And yeah, yeah, Maggie fucking gets it, this place is a torture chamber.But where the hell is the person they were working on?  Or at least what’s left of them?  Four guys wouldn’t just hang out in this basement when they could be getting their own take-out... or cleaning up the remnants of whatever this was. ||Detective Sawyer comes upon a scene that ends up being a lot more personal than it was supposed to be.(Sanvers Endgame)





	Isolation

           

Lights set to flicker on a timer aren’t usually easy to spot. Few organizations take the time to code a pattern that doesn't repeat in a loop that's recognizable at first glance.

The surveillance team has been casing this house, on the outskirts of National City, for days, under the warrant of suspicious activity. It takes three days for anything to become fruitful of it, takes the signal team nine hours of solid focus to analyze the pattern and confirm it for what it was, three more to work through chain of command for an access plan, two more for her boss to send Detective Maggie Sawyer and Davidson to help them contain whatever could arise out of it.

And hell did sure arise out of it.

Maggie feels the familiar adrenaline fade from her veins, breathing fuller, heart rate decreasing, resolve solidifying, as the dust fades from the firestorm.

The men had instigated a firefight before the squad could even reach the front door.

Of the four criminals, two are dead. Caught in the slew of bullets and cross fire. One is handcuffed. Sitting stiff as Officer Taylor reads him his Miranda Rights. The last is swearing a dialogue so colorful it would make a pirate jealous, but Phillips is purposefully ignoring him, as nudges any potential weapons out of reach. All four criminals seem to be of Asian descent. Bahraini, maybe. The coloring the swearing man has, leaves her wondering if he might be Kuwaiti. Though the nose he sports could belie some Iranian blood, were she to lean on stereotypes. She supposes facial recognition would tell them more later.

Her own partner, Davidson, glances away from the stockpile of weaponry at her as he finishes radioing dispatch.

“Shit. These are Herstal’s.”

Her partner murmurs eying the weapons warily.

Military grade rifles. An entire stockpile of them.

 But the men obviously weren’t military. Having been subdued so easily, they obviously hadn’t known how to use any of them.

“Sawyer, you and Davidson, check the basement. We’ll finish up here. Stop the neighbors from getting nosy, until CSI gets here.”

The detective nods, unholstering her weapon once more as the duo make their way to the basement doors.

The journey down creaking, wooden stairs is slow and deliberate, as both scan the area to see an inkling of what the men were up to down here. To see whether they brought anyone else to join the party.

Davidson pauses behind her and for a moment they wait. Silence reigns. No one else joins them.

But the cursory glance paints a grisly story.

Old blood mottles the tools decorating the walls.  Chains lace the ceiling like party streamers. In the center a rusting metal table, some molting wood, and the yellowing remnants of paper strewn about like forgotten gift wrap. There’s a mop and bucket at the foot of the stairs that reek of death. The drain in center has been cleaned more thoroughly than a hospital operating room.  

Glistening ominously in the dimmed flickering amber lights.

Yeah, yeah, Maggie fucking gets it, this place is a torture chamber.  

But where the hell is the person they were working on?  Or at least what’s left of them?  Four guys wouldn’t just hang out in this basement when they could be getting their own take-out... or cleaning up the remnants of whatever this was.

The detective inches further downward, cigarette butts and bug carcasses crushing into ash underneath each footstep. A ghastly smell encroaching deeper into her senses. Uneasiness worming its way underneath her skin.   

More and more is revealed as the basement opens further under the flickering light and she looks at Davidson, who nods wordlessly, following her precedent as he peels to the left as she goes right.

The footsteps of Phillips and Taylor are hollow, but resounding above them. Movements busy securing the scene and extraditing the detained men into custody.

They’re going away for a long time, no doubt the book is going to be thrown at them. Shooting at the police alone, was a guaranteed felony, much less anything else they would find in here. Because there’s too much blood for this to be anything innocent.

She sees some shelving cabinets, bookshelves in disarray, a sunken yellowing sofa, that decorate nooks and crannies she hadn’t seen on the way down, but really, it’s more trash, metal scraps, and rotting food than anything else.  

As she moves further inwards, a bright red fabric catches her eye. From the angle, it disguises itself as part of the wall. Painted similarly to the ghastly maroon of this spattered catastrophe. But it contrasts just a bit too much from the darkened greys, yellows, and maroons of the other crimson stained objects. Folded almost carefully, like a blanket, on top of one of the shelving cabinets.

The detective approaches carefully, unsure what has drawn her to the object, other than that it seems starkly out of place. A blanket?  

She lifts it from the shelf and it’s heavy in her hands. The red material is strong, too strong to be the cotton-soft of a blanket, instead it’s thick, heavy, rough. Black-ops grade. Stained with familiar crimson. It’s not a blanket.

“Fuck,” she hisses, recognizing the fabric.

Ice twisting up her veins, curling around her heart, gripping it tight. Smothering it.

It was a cape.

Once upon a time, she stood behind this cape. Fought along with the person who wore it.

Maggie forces her frozen muscles to keep going, forces herself to look further. She finds the boots hidden behind a tilted bookcase. The golden cape clips shouldered in the corner of another drawer, tights too, peeking from under the couch is the familiar blue fabric, and if she squints in the flickering illuminescence, she can see the stitched S-

Fuck.

The red fabric slips from her fingers.

The weight on her chest doesn’t. The adrenaline and corresponding tightness doesn’t.

She isn’t stupid. Supergirl hasn’t been active in the last two...three weeks? And Maggie, though usually no longer privy to that kind of information now that her and Alex were no longer together, still had access to some information by virtue of being in the Alien Division of the Police Department. So, she knows that Supergirl is missing, something that the public didn’t know, but was rapidly catching on too, but she hadn’t been assigned the case. So, her access to information ended there.

Even though, she’d been keeping her ears open for any other leads.

But fuck if...

Little Danvers is or was here, in this basement, tucked away in some hidey-hole buffered by the extra concrete lining the foundation, buried in the yard, somewhere.

Because they hadn’t known the police were coming, they wouldn’t have known to transport her.

And does that mean… that all this blood is hers?

Nausea swells up within her. She’s going to be sick. Detaching feelings from a case is much easier when there are no connections to it. And if this is Kara’s blood. If this is…. Fuck.

“There’s nothing over here,” Davidson calls, the uneasiness is palpable in his tone, it sends hackles up her spine. But she can’t even look in his direction, can’t tear her line of sight away from the supersuit.

“Hey. You good?”

Davidson calls again. Worry punctuating his tone now.

She can hear his footsteps approaching.

But still she can’t move, can’t talk, can’t look away.

Why can’t she say anything? It’s a simple word. Why can’t she speak…

Davidson stops just behind her shoulder and his next question trails off as he sees.

“Fuck.”

He murmurs. The sentiment is shared.

“If she’s here… If…. They probably have her locked away somewhere. They… they were smart,” her own voice is hollow in her ears, as if she’s not actually speaking.

Her partner nods silently behind her.

“You think… It might be a crawl space? Houses this old usually have bomb shelters, hidden tunnels, stuff like that.”

Maggie hums her agreement, moving with leadened legs as she lurches forward, without explanation. Leaning close and hastily tracking the walls, knocking occasionally for an echo of empty space. Davidson does the same thing, jumping to the opposite wall.

And she doesn't get far before there’s a distinct pocket of hollowness. Hidden behind a shelf of car parts, scrap metal and rusting medical tools. Davidson shoves it out of the way with the strength of his shoulder. With much more power than is warranted, but the adrenaline is fueling his movements, now too.

The seam in the drywall is obvious, as are the padlocks sealing it shut. Maggie wastes no time shooting them off.  The drywall, however is harder to work at. Davidson is chipping at the seels with a desecrated crowbar and as the wood and plaster chip away she sees green metal bars woven into the structure. And of course… that’s how they would have kept her subdued.

It makes her wonder how much of the deadly rock is interlaced the goddamn concrete.

The wall falls away into an enclosure.

Three feet high, two feet deep, and two feet wide.  It’s the world’s worst coffin and _Kara_ is curled inside it.  

At least, Maggie thinks that it’s Kara.  Admittedly, it’s hard to tell when she’s tangled up in this tiny crawlspace, face obscured by a curtain of blonde dirty hair,  clad in dirty blue scrubs, not moving. The detective recognizes the posture though. The defeated kneel that comes from being restrained and cut off from light and life. Her hands are restrained behind her back in a bloodied oven mittens. Both having been cable tied to the wall in the crawlspace.  Something akin to a gas mask shackled around her head, the eyes colored in with black marker. Pretty damn large headphones anchored around her ears, and the detective can hear the noise from here.

No sight, no smell, no sound, no taste, in the corner, a hulking block of glowing emerald rock in the corner.  

Sensory deprivation.

Fucking hell.

“Jesus,” Davidson murmurs and she feels him take a step back. Her eyes flicker to the ceiling, wishing the men had put up more of a fight, so she’d have an excuse to shoot the remaining two dead. On the other hand, she’s going to have a hell of a time interrogating them. Fuckers like them aren’t smart enough, nor well supplied enough to come up with this shit on their own.  

Her slight flickers back to Kara, who has enough sense about her to know something is different. Breathing having picked up, knees gathering closer to her chest. And the detective recognizes that fear response, she’d seen it in the vault months ago, after the battle with Psi.

“Davidson.” she murmurs to her partner, a green tinge colors his features. “Call the DEO.”

He nods, hastily retreats. Until it’s only the two of them. And there is no easy way to do this.

She bends to her knees, cuts the zip ties with her pocket knife. Whispers anything comforting she can think of as she pretends not to notice as the bloody marks on both arms, when they fall from the wall, coming to a rest behind her back. She waits a moment. For what, she doesn’t know. But when it becomes apparent that the blonde isn’t going to move of her own volition, the detective grabs Kara as gently as she can and pulls her from the enclosure.

Away from the glowing emerald.

The ensuing fight is a bad one, a weak one, hardly worthy of being called a fight, save for Kara’s dedication to the cause. Efforts made pointless, under all the sensory-depriving gear. It does confirm that Kryptonite must be laced throughout the basement, because she isn’t killed when Kara starts kicking at her, sabotaging the sitting position the detective pulled her into. Scrambling away with a desperation she hasn’t seen in a long time.

The detective steps away from the unexpected energy, letting Kara kick at air as she tries to gather her wits. Her heart pounds in her chest, her hands tremble, and she wishes she hadn't tried to do this alone. But there is no easier way to do this, and now that it’s started it can’t be undone. And it would be cruel to leave the blonde like this. So, Maggie swallows her fear, wrestles forward, fumbling with clumsy fingers as she attempts to pry away the gas mask.

Kara as scared and weak as she may be, fights the entire time. Makes connection after connection as the detective remembers painfully that the blonde still can do damage without her powers.  

“Kara, it’s me. It’s me, Maggie,” she sputters, in what she hopes sounds calming, when the apparatus falls away. Replaced instantly by muffled screams, as the blonde kicks herself into a corner

Maggie backs off instantly, instinctively covering her ears, biding her time as she gives Kara time to adjust to the light and see her. And Jesus, all the detective can see is a kid. Because Kara has always been a kid at heart. That carefreeness is gone now. Her eyes bloodshot, the irises a peculiar green, salty tears stream trail down without abandon, there’s… there’s something in her mouth...

How long was she in there? Surely, it wasn’t for the entirety. Minutes, hours, a day maybe?

She glances back at Kara, sees if she adjusted yet, and under the flickering amber light, the detective notices her pupils aren’t constricting, she’s not blinking. Staring blindly ahead, right through the detective as her shoulders shake with muffled sobs. Maggie was going to shoot the bastards dead, make them beg for their lives as she ripped the air from their lungs. Gathering the nerve, she approaches slowly,  reaching for the headphones. Those go much easier.

“Kara. It’s me. Detective Sawyer,” she tries again, and the words are heavy, weighed down by the lump in her throat. 

Kara spasms back as if she’s been shot. Slamming backwards into the concrete. Head shoving into her knees, eyes scrunching tight, as her arms attempt cover her ears, failing if only because they’re still tied behind her back. If anything the jerky movements become more spastic, the muffled screams louder.  But why the drastic response? The basement is quiet, albeit the hum of electricity and the discarded headphones. And sure the neighborhood is bustling dimly outside- Shit. Super hearing. Even subdued, the physiology would surely still be different.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Maggie whispers desperately. Wonders how far, how long it would be until the DEO could get here. Until Alex could get here.  At the very least, the time it would take for Davidson to get back down here. But until then… _She has to do her job._

And for a moment, Maggie feels like she’s back in Gotham. Like she’s still a rookie cop who left home too soon and only learned what real villains were when it was too late.

Kara’s kicking at her again and when the blonde tries to push her away again, the detective grabs at her. Pulls her close, ignoring the shudder that emanates from the hero, as she wrestles whatever it is away from her mouth.

It’s a sock, she realizes, as it lands with a wet thud.

Kara wrenches away, turns to the side and pukes. Heave after heave of clear bile. God only knows how she’s still got something in her stomach, but Maggie uses the distraction to cut the duct tape from the oven mitts that bind her hands together.  And when the mitts falls away the congealing, clumping blood that coats her hands does too. Oh Kara…

The blonde wastes no time, bringing her hands up to her ears, rocking herself back and forth on her knees, as she makes a valiant attempt to block out the noise. The detective, having learned her lesson, stays quiet. Stays silent. Prays that Davidson does not come running down yelling. Prays that the DEO won’t come sirens blaring. Listens to her own heart roar as Kara’s breathing begins to even out.

Seconds, then minutes, tick away on her watch, as the wheezing screams dwindle into agonized moans and then indecipherable murmurs.

How long were you in there, she wants to ask. How long did it take for them to break you, is what she really means, because Kara is shattered. Unrecognizable. Broken.

 She doesn’t voice her thoughts aloud.

 Davidson still hasn’t come back down. She knows it’s because the smell, the sight, the everything is just a little bit too much for him. Knows that he’s probably staying with Taylor and Phillips upstairs, waiting for DEO to arrive on scene.

So it’s up to her for now, to think of a game plan. She needs to get Kara out of here. Kryptonite isn’t doing the blonde any favors, she can see the faint shine of it coursing up her veins, but God if she flips out away from kryptonite, the blonde could just as easily kill her or others. Fuck. Her thoughts gather in her head, until it’s all she can hear. Until it’s the only thing she can hear.

 And eventually she realizes, it’s because she can’t hear anything else.

 It’s quieter than before. The electrical hum is still there. And the distance hum of static from the headphones. But there are, no moans, murmurs, whispers. No whimpers. 

“You with me, Little Danvers?”

 One look tells her the answer’s no, tells her that Kara’s barely there. Her ears still framed by her bloodied hands, staring blindly at nothing, as her body shuddering weakly from exhaustion, fighting for self-control.

“Alex is on her way, okay? Just hang on a little longer-”

“I… I w-wanna g-go home…”

The raspy words spill from Kara’s cracked, bloody bile-stained lips. Blind eyes red-rimmed and fever bright, half-lidded in delirium.

It takes everything in Maggie’s power to reach out and not touch her then.

“Alex is coming, she’s going to get you ho-”

 Kara isn’t comprehending, shoulders quivering silently, squeezing her eyes shut until they’re barely slits in her face.

 “I w-wanna go h-home…. I-I want t-to go home. I wanna... I wanna g-go h-home”

 The whimpers the blonde makes are soul-tearing.

 “I know… I know…”

 Kara doesn’t stop repeating the incessant mantra.

 Maggie doesn't stop with the reassurances.

 Moments pass.

 The sound of wood creaking softly interrupts her. And though she can’t see anyone from her position, she can hear three distinct patterns of footsteps descending carefully down the stairs.

 If Kara has noticed, she hasn’t responded. Slurring her incessant need for Maggie to let her go home.

 The first person to come into view is Davidson. His eyes still wide, his face still tinged green, but his jaw grit with determination.

 The second person is…

 Alex.

 And God she hasn’t seen Alex in almost three months. And she supposes this is how they’ll meet again. In the basement of a blood-spattered house as the detective tries to calm her broken, shattered sister.

Her ex-fiance’s eyes are wide with horror and relief and anguish, each emotion fighting hard to dominate the others, as they flit over everything in the room. Absorbing the scene. Trying to figure out what in the hell happened. The unshed tears are prominent, and Maggie can hear Alex’s breath catch as she takes in the duo on the floor. Can see her hands tremble as they fight the urge to gather her sister, can see them clench with that familiar protectiveness that always flares up in situations like these. And when their eyes meet amber on amber, the overwhelming gratitude Alex exudes, reminds her of everything she had tried so hard to forget.

The last person to descend the stairs enters the light. J’onn J'onzz. Standing tall and authoritative with a first aid kit in had. His eyes are sad, but he nods at Maggie. And she supposes he’s the reason why the DEO didn’t come in sirens blazing, why she hadn’t heard them arrive on scene. He’d been reading her mind.

She silently holds up a finger to her lips anyway, gestures for them to stay quiet.

And Alex is already crossing the room. Quietly, softly, quickly, kneeling next to her sister. Ignoring the disarray, the blood, the everything around her, as she gets on level with the shivering blonde.

Maggie can still hear Kara’s broken whispers.

“I… wanna g-go home…”

Shaky, soft, and slurred.

She needs sun lamps.

She needs anything.

But at least she has her sister now.

And Alex starts speaking softly to her. In a language, the detective hasn’t heard in a long time.

Kryptonian.

After a moment, Kara’s slurred mantra breaks off.

And the blonde dissolves into tears.

Small, weak cries, instead the gasping agonized sobs of before.

The salt in Maggie’s eyes begins to blur her vision.

Her palms find the concrete beneath her, trying to find purchase on the ground so she can push herself up.

Alex is here now; her job is done.

A hand on her knee, stops her from moving further.

Alex.

The brunette is looking at her, unbridled emotion in her expression.

“Stay.”

Alex says.

Maggie does.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought?


End file.
